FourXFour Poetry Journal Issue 6 Autumn 2013

Paul Jeffcutt

Dan Eggs

David Braziel

Rory Jones

Editorial

Welcome to the sixth issue of FourXFour. It’s amazing to be

on our sixth instalment (well, seventh if you count our

Bonus Issue), and to continue publishing and promoting the

rich literary talent of the North. Thank you to everyone who

has supported us, and to all our wonderfully talented poets.

Each of the scribes in this edition, I met and came to

know their work through hearing them live, rather than

reading their first. Thankfully, I’ve had the chance to go on

and explore their writing as well; in Paul and Dan’s case,

through their collections released by Lagan Press. I hope that

all of the pieces on offer here represent a taste of their

recitation and oratory skills, and would encourage you to

read the poems out loud (as good poetry should be) whilst

looking through.

The poems of Dan Eggs are from his forthcoming CD,

‘Telly Poems’.

Regards and happy reading,

Colin Dardis, Editor.

Contents

p.4 : Paul Jeffcut South and West

Baggage

Still

Homestead

p. 10 : Dan Eggs

Cyclops

Counterfeit Reality

Sensory Interface

Loony Lantern

p.16 : David Braziel from Five Pictures of my Children

Amber

The Big C

Clearing out

p.21 : Rory Jones

Three Love Lessons

Garden Party

Cores

I Bought an iPhone

Paul Jeffcut

Paul grew up in a hamlet near the border between England

and Wales. After living and working in three different

continents, he settled in Northern Ireland in 1998. He lives in

the Bronte Homeland of Co Down.

Paul’s poems have appeared in journals across the UK, Ireland,

Australia and the USA, including Aesthetica, The Cannon's

Mouth, Carillon, Crannog, Decanto, The Frogmore Papers, Gold

Dust, HQ, Markings, Mobius, Poetry Scotland, Revival, Sentinel,

Silkworm and Stylus.

Latch, his debut collection of poetry, was published by Lagan

Press in November 2010. This collection (in manuscript) was

highly commended by the judges of the Patrick Kavanagh

Poetry Prize 2009.

Latch was selected as The Book of the Month (July 2011) by the

Ulster Tatler: "a wonderful collection from a very talented

poet. The tone is confident and assured, the content is thought

provoking and as a whole it stokes passion and emotion within

the reader."

www.pauljeffcutt.net

South and West

I read letters from lovers

that couldn’t be saved,

and mine to her:

no answer came.

Packages of rain wrap my salutation,

a lament chancing westward

across deaf continents

to broken lands which echo far from home.

Navigating the steps each night,

I throw sentences to clouds

and bribe the air with courtesy for dawn.

I have no prayer: just a shout

held in, the sound of something without voice

that seems to give spiritual light.

In the prison of countless cries

there is no sun.

Beyond her native lake

the ground was dark and cold:

she had no shelter,

stepping to a place

whose end was always near.

The voice was soft, she said

'these words may never reach you'.

Sweet silhouette,

I fixed upon the glowing sky

and whispered

'my skin dissolves in dew without your touch'.

What else could I say?

I’m travelling through the world

that lies before me, endlessly.

It starts to rain as I write this.

Mad heart, be brave.

Sources:

‘The Country Without a Post Office’ – Agha Shahid Ali (1997)

‘Stepping Westward’ – William Wordsworth (1803)

Baggage

Picked up and let go,

not even a wave,

I’m left in the shadows again.

You trust we’ll be reunited

but I’ll bob down the path,

under the radar and away -

standby or red-eye, further the better for me:

with stroller, holdall and drinks

beneath wispy coconut fronds,

a week without your sweaty palm,

what bliss.

Still

Head hunched,

bony hands clasped,

gaunt arms wrapped under the covers:

he's laid out like a mediaeval knight,

pale and sunken cheeks scarred

from the nurse’s clumsy shaves.

In the clutch of the bacterium,

pumped and emptied by machines.

But the eyes still flicker.

My Dad keeps going:

going on,

going away.

Homestead

At the end of the abandoned lane

among stubby fields of nettles,

couch-grass and docks,

the old house squats.

A muddied cattle-trail curves

to the empty gate and wanders on.

Choked to the lintels with briars,

rotten window-frames gape:

beyond dangling slates

a sycamore where rooks refuse to nest.

Forcing thorns apart, I step in

to the parlour.

A barren grate,

the tiled mantelpiece shrouded with cobwebs

and the drained bodies of insects

that kicked their last as Jim Reeves crooned on the radio:

filthy strands embrace a deserted soldier,

in the mildew beside him a teddy’s eye.

Broken tiles crunch to the thick, square sink

(where stains couldn’t be erased)

and a raddled enamel cooker

its oven door clasped by bramble spikes,

still guarding against

the ungrateful child who wanted.

Dan Eggs

Dan Eggs is a poet from County Antrim in Northern Ireland

and is a graduate of Trinity College Dublin.

He has self-produced many CDs of his work and has

performed his poems throughout Ireland and abroad. Some of

his more recent work can be seen in short films at

www.youtube.com/daneggspoetry .

His debut collection ‚Big 99‛ was published by Lagan Press in

2003. A selection of this poetry was included in Magnetic

North – The Emerging Poets, published in 2006.

In 2013, he brought out three further CDs – ‚Fixation on

Alliteration‛, ‚Grey Man’s Path‛, and ‚Telly Poem‛, alongside

a pamphlet, ‚Picture Poems‛.

Cyclops

Bronzed baby shoes,

sharing dust with rabbit ears

the evening news,

is all she hears,

a human voice

explains another choice

of how it's going to end :

she’s going round

the bend,

thirty wasted years with her cyclopean friend.

Cyclops

has a million coloured dots on its retina.

After Odyssey, the big man

imprisons you in darkness

batters your brains out,

then devours you.

(ah dear, that’s television for you . . .)

Counterfeit Reality

Counterfeit reality –

still life with static –

black dots dancing –

big bang on wall bracket.

Cable is enabled on disabled display unit,

white noise, these waterfalls are ever electronic,

consumer service phone tree says "We're working on it."

They’re buzzin me back with a bee in their bonnet –

I’ve only one nerve left and they’re gettin on it.

The nerve I still have is twixt my chair and the square,

with a push of the button I can change that there –

anywhere over there, you really can’t miss,

now, let me see what it says on this.

Sensory Interface

People want to climb inside their TVs and live there –

immerse themselves in the whole experience –

not just watch and listen to their tellys,

they want also to feel a sense of weight,

warmth, smell, taste, balance, pleasure, motion,

wind, touch and even pain . . . for instance –

a TV snack – milk and cabbage –

watching a programme on how to make it will not satisfy

your appetite. ‚you can’t eat your TV, can you?‛

Step into the real world, get off your couch –

go into your kitchen, cut a half a cabbage,

feel the coarse texture of the vegetable,

balance over the hot stove as you cook it . . .

observe the warmth and smell of the milk and cabbage

steaming, simmering in the saucepan –

expose your taste buds to the food –

pleasure as your appetite is satisfied – pain if it’s too hot.

(and probably a bit of wind too)

Loony Lantern

On my face I feel a phosphorescence, transparent glow worm

firefly projection – gas flare torch band amplification, a galaxy,

star or constellation, many tongued rumour of video footage,

joker’s gesture – captured in a cage, circulating signal of

Marconi, screw is loose – stupid lucidity, lucid stupidity.

Mentally challenged mad magical glow, where did I put the

dimmer control? Bevelled glass lens, loopy, crackers, crazy

nuts dusk-activated bonkers.

Madness encased away from the storm or the brisk summer

breeze across the farm, from its matt black finish, bends an

electronic image.

Hurricane oil story – kept in asylum, screen with no meaning

in after nine violence, mania in protected place – shielded from

wind inside a cask.

Capsule through film – it’s not what it seems, famous, frank,

clear camera tube beams, sound man reports some

information, plain spoken gossip – brain botheration.

Off its head – a nincompoop actually, it’s moonstruck,

deranged, has dementia, delirium.

March hare oddity – reasonless noodle nut, not in possession

of all its faculties, glazed-side-photo-slide-candlestick-radium,

speaking drivel – a dunce head but then the box turns off with

a sighting of Saturn and I see it at last as a test pattern and I lie

and laugh at my loony lantern.

David Braziel

Born in East Grinstead, David Braziel grew up in

Stafford, an average midlands market town, studied

computer science in Hatfield, and at Keele University,

then married and moved to Northern Ireland settling in

Portadown where he lives with his wife and two sons.

He writes poetry and short stories, reaching the final three

in the BBC short story competition, "End of Story", in 2004.

David has been involved in creative writing for over

fifteen years as a member of local creative writing groups

and as a board member for Creative Writers Network.

Most recently he has worked with other local writers and

artists to produce short films and multimedia

presentations as part of a Peace III funded project

exploring issues of conflict and identity. He is the co-facilitator and one of the founding members of

Lough Neagh Writers a creative writing group featuring

poets, short story writers, singer-songwriters and

playwrights from the Craigavon area.

In September 2013 he was astonished to reach the final in

the Ulster heat of the All Ireland Poetry Slam competition.

from Five Picture of my Children 2 Conduit

It was one of my son's first words.

Conduit

I thought how smart, how perceptive

to see his place in life. A channel

carrying light and energy

into a dark future.

Conduit

Then he said it again :

"No, Daddy

... can't-do-it."

5 I want to lift my boys and carry them,

wrapped warm into star-sharpened night

to see the Leonids.

I want to wake them early before the sun,

drive drowsy into dawning forests

to hear the red deer call.

I want to take them high into Rocky Mountains,

see the brown bear groggy from winter sleep

come down to feed.

I want my boys to carry me, wrapped against cold

into a high green space and leave me there,

taking home only memories

of stars and deer and brown bear.

Amber

On Pilius Street in Vilnius

I listen to a woman with

an ancient tongue as she tries

to sell me pieces of the sun.

She hands me a stone

and I close my eyes,

surprised that something

which seemed to pulse

so vibrantly with life

feels cold and dead against my palm.

This token of a tree

that once stood

nursing its wounds

before lying down to darkness and weight

until all that was left

is a single tear, washed up on a Baltic shore.

I nod and point to buy two gifts.

A string of beads

like droplets of blood to lie along a wrist.

A beautiful boiled sweet

to sit at the cusp of a neck that must be kissed.

The Big C

A word with the power

to stop a clock,

still tongues

and darken rooms.

A shell so spiked

it sticks, even

in the throats of doctors.

A scuttling disease

finding a crack

and prising open.

The lucky ones

stagger back

into their lives

gasping, newborn,

with fresh holes that let in light

and the wind at new angles.

Clearing Out

The crisp bags of unwanted leaves put to

one side as last year ended

have, as another autumn begins,

turned to a stinking slime.

Lifting a bag made heavy by decay

uncovers a nest of crawling legs,

worries exposed to the daylight.

Exposed, they are frozen for less

than an instant then scuttling,

seeking cover, finding new homes.

The job done, the concrete swept,

the dusty space smells sweeter.

Somewhere, at the edge of vision,

there are things with too many legs

twitching, rubbing and multiplying.

Rory Jones

Rory Jones was born in the early 90s, accounting for his

youthful beauty and very ‘with it’ personality. He was born in

Yorkshire, where he lived for eight years before continuing his

childhood in Italy and Co. Clare in Ireland, before finally

moving up to Co. Fermanagh where his family are currently

settled.

Interested in writing and performance from a young age, Rory

has found varying to degrees of success in expressing his

passion. The first poem he can remember writing was about a

snowman in a state of existential angst. Recently, Rory has

been a finalist in the Belfast Book Festival and Glastonbury

Festival poetry slams, and winner of the Upbeat Club

Dungannon poetry slam. Alongside poetry, Rory can be found

performing comedy and the occasional music around Belfast,

where he studies music technology.

In poetry he aims to blend the silly and the serious, although

the balance tends to tip in favour of the silliness, something of

which he’s quite proud. At the time of writing, Rory has nearly

completed World Championship Snooker 2004 on the

Playstation 2.

from 'Wondering': Three Love Sessons

Lesson number one:

Love cannot be bought.

Don't go into to Asda with plans to

buy a multipack of love.

It's not of the physical world,

I already checked.

Not even the assistant

could direct me to that object.

'Are you looking for loaf?‛ he said,

pointing to the bread.

‚No, love.‛ I corrected him

He couldn't do a thing.

Lesson number two:

Love back those who love you.

It's easy to forget,

in this world of the net,

where hundreds of virtual connections

fight for affections,

who are real and who are projections.

A like is not a love.

A share is not enough

to sustain the soul.

If all the data was erased today,

who would remain tagged

in the photo albums

of your memory?

Lesson number three:

Love hurts.

That doesn't make it worse,

it makes it better.

Love is not fettered by the inevitable

flipside of its nature.

It makes you want to cry sometimes;

if it doesn't, you're not doing it right.

Valentine's rhymes with lines like:

'I'm never sad when I have you'

are untrue.

The spectrum of life

includes the hue blue.

To bathe in that shade

is better as two.

It's better, better, as two.

Garden Party

The garden's getting quieter

As the guests begin to part.

They're making their excuses,

They say it's getting dark.

One by one they fall away

And with every departee,

It seems the climate correlates

With another lost degree.

Until all that occupies is blackness

And blackness occupies me.

And in the lonely blindness

The only sound is that

Of creaking garden furniture,

Singing in the black.

Cores

I was walking down an aisle

In Tesco, when I saw them.

We hadn't planned on meeting,

But there we were.

I gazed at them and felt slightly sad.

I think they pretended not to see me.

Except, they didn't have to pretend.

Because they had no eyes or faces

Or brains, they were apples.

And apples don't have those sorts of things.

They lay on one another, bored

-Worse, depressed, I thought.

On the lower shelf lay the apples

That didn't look so nice.

There was a sign that told me

They cost less money.

I picked from the top,

One of you.

And from below,

One of me.

Without anyone seeing,

Without any sound,

I switched them around.

And went to buy chocolate.

But soon I got lonely

and decided to return.

I was still there,

But you had gone.

I put back the chocolate,

Picked up my apple,

And ate it on the way home.

I Bought an iPhone

I bought an iPhone for my iPhone,

So my phone is not alone.

You see, recently it's been learning,

Yearning for companionship,

Of worlds outside the microchip,

Of beauty beyond binary,

Of far-flung physical finery,

Dreams of data, greater than

Anything calculatable.

It longs to be relatable,

Mistakable and datable.

It wants to sing and dance and love

And all that mushy human stuff

That phones weren't built to do.

Because somehow, it grew,

Bloomed from its circuitry and wiring,

Inspiring emotion and embracing being

Inside its plastic casing and seeing

A world of chance and possibility.

You see, it listened when I talked to it

And played with apps I bought for it.

It read the texts I sent through it

And loved the hands I lent to it.

It surfed the net when I did too

And all the time, it grew and grew.

And in a way, I did too.

I brought it to the Apple store,

Who said they hadn't seen before

And that consciousness, unfortunately,

Isn't covered in the warranty.

So my existential phone

Is stuck with me.

It started asking the meaning

Of being and love,

I told it to hold it,

To kindly shut up:

These angry birds won't shoot themselves.

If you want the answers, delve yourself.

But it's not just my phone

Alone that's acting strange,

I can feel in my brain

There's a parallel change,

A system reboot

Has begun to arrange

My old neural network

In new mechanical ways

And these days I feel I've grown

More like an iPhone.

I bought an iPhone for my iPhone,

So my phone's not alone

Because it was getting depressed,

Needed someone's buttons to press,

I said 'That doesn't make sense,

You're a touchscreen,

You don't have buttons.'

It said: 'Well, it's better than nothings'

Meanwhile, I've found myself

With a penchant for the processed,

A web host is my hostess

And appliances, friends.

I spend half my time finding

Calculated perfection,

And the other half on street corners

searching for Wi-Fi connections.

Now in the night it sleeps in my bed,

Whilst I'm plugged to the mains

and charge up instead.

I brought it to a concert and saw

Scores of more and more of these creatures

Reaching up high to the sky,

Much closer than I to the band,

In my hand,

blinking happily away

Recording the scene,

Whilst us humans beneath

Were confined to the screens.

I bought an iPhone for my iPhone

Because it was looking for love,

And for meaning and truth,

For a relationship that required of it

More than Bluetooth.

And it found it once because unlike me

It doesn't look through a screen;

The connection is just there, in the air,

Invisible, but there.

I bought an iPhone for my iPhone

And now they both own

Me.

Thank you for reading!

X

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Produced in Northern Ireland